


Honest Touches

by RevlerRose



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-29 08:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6366616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RevlerRose/pseuds/RevlerRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a carbon copy of a story I've posted on fanfiction.  I was encouraged to cross post so I hope you guys enjoy it as well!  </p>
<p>This is a Frank Castle/Karen Page (i.e. 'Kastle) fic in 4 parts. It contains spoilers from Season 2 of TV's Daredevil. It will contain EXPLICIT sexual content, angst, hurt/comfort, and flashes of PTSD triggers from Frank's side. Some reworking of the timelines from the Daredevil TV show. This isn't a pretty story but, my aim is to make it honest; like Frank Castle. </p>
<p>"Touch has a memory" - John Keats</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hospital

**Author's Note:**

> I, of course, do not own any part of the Marvel Universe. If I did I wouldn't be refinancing my mortgage. Explicit Warning: This is a Frank Castle/ Karen Page pairing fic that contains explicit sexual content. If this isn't your thing; turn back now. You have been warned.

Frank Castle had been too tired to take his wife to bed when he came home from The Shit.

He regretted that now.

Well, maybe not now, as he was strapped to the sterile white hospital bed with soft nylon - cotton blend restraints, but, in general it would become one of his life's regrets.

That night he went home with his family and forewent eating dinner to curl up in his King sized bed. He told his Maria that he would be better tomorrow; 'jetlag' he'd said.

He'd laid there, heavy and cold, sweating slightly as he listened to the sounds of dinner, then the TV, then Lisa begging to have him read to her.

The features on Maria's face had bunched up in concern when she'd come to their room and found him with her pillow pulled to his face, his eyes open, staring at the wall.

"Babe," he'd refocused on her features and gave her his best smile, "I'm fine, just, tired." He'd reached up then and gently pulled her down into bed with him. Replacing her pillow with the source of the smell he loved. He'd bowed around her body and banded his arms across her midsection and he'd held her like that until she'd released that tell tail sigh of relaxation and he'd felt her muscles uncoil and sag back into his. He'd slept then; waking when he felt her leave his side and, then, falling back into oblivion when she'd returned; hair wet and smelling faintly of mint.

His last thoughts before falling asleep, with his hand softly cupping her right breast, were of desire. He wanted to pull her close to him. He wanted to rake up her nightgown and play her sex like a long ago mastered instrument. He'd wanted to be with her, inside her, until her frantic whispers turned into lip biting in an attempt not to wake their babies. He'd wanted to know if it was still the same; if he could still make her shatter underneath him. But, he was too tired. Too bone deadening, lead muscle, mother-fucking tired and, as the blackness overtook him, his last consoling thought was; 'I'll have her tomorrow.'

Frank Castle never got another night.

He'd awoken late that next morning, after nine on a Saturday, and found, to his dismay, that he was still tired. Pulling himself from bed he'd showered and briefly thought about shaving before deciding that it was better left for some other time when his arms didn't feel like lead. In the kitchen he'd found Maria and the kids with the Bulletin open on the table to an article about the historical restoration of the carousel at Central Park. Frank Jr. had declared that red horses were his favorite and Lisa admonished him for a choice so ordinary while declaring, in sharp contrast, that lions were her choice for conveyance and, by default, the best option. He'd smiled then; a real honest to God smile, as he took his seat at the head of table and tucked into a plate of eggs, bacon, and wheat toast. A sudden jolt of energy ran through his nervous system as he watched Maria do dishes as his babies argued and, just for a moment, he thought that this would be the way he got to be better, less tired, be himself again. He would stay as close to this as he could for as long as he could.

"What do you youngins' say we go?" He'd asked. Their faces had lit up. "We'll do a test run on all the animals; ride them as many times as you like."

And the rest;

The door to his private hospital room banged and Frank's eyes snapped open; harshly jerking him back to reality.

There was a blind man there, a man with shoulder length blondish hair and rounded features, and woman with skin the color of sweet cream. The blind man said his name and the other one with the hair mumbled something about tape. 'Of Course,' Frank thought, 'the tape on the floor. I'm dangerous now.' He'd forgotten for a moment, just a moment, while he lived in the past at his kitchen table. But, that was ridiculous. He'd always been dangerous. It just wasn't hidden anymore.

The blind man spoke about their firm. Nelson and Murdock defenders of the city's trash. Frank felt bile rise in the back of his throat and, just as he was starting to tell them off, telling them not to bother with him, she rushed forward with a picture of his family.

It was from a happier time. Before his last deployment he'd taken the kid's and Maria to Central Park; to say goodbye. They'd asked a Japanese tourist to take their picture. They'd laughed. They'd ridden the carousel until Frank Jr. got sick. He'd hadn't been so Goddamned tired then. He'd let Maria drive him home so Lisa could sleep in his lap and that night he'd made slow love to his wife like he'd had all the time in the world. The picture the sweet cream woman held to his face had only two copies. One had been in Maria's purse and sustained a bullet hole clean through it the day she died and then other had been in his house.

"Where'd you get that?" Frank grunted.

The sweet cream woman, 'Karen' the blind man had called her, looked a bit ashamed suddenly but, she didn't lie. "Your home."

The blind man, Murdock, was pulling her away now and there was yelling in the hall. Frank reached forward, as best he could in the restraints, and he felt his fingertips brush hers, Karen's, and then glide along the slick sheen of the photograph as Murdock pulled her back. Frank started to speak but, the yelling increased and the door banged open for a second time as the Lady DA filled up his room with anger and venom ordering Nelson and Murdock into the hall. Frank looked on with mild panic as Karen was pulled along with them like a tide headed out to sea taking his precious photograph with her.

Frank was left alone with the Detective now who simply crossed his arms and made a non-descript poker face that landed somewhere between disgust and exhaustion. "I want them," Frank said after a time. The Detective blinked but, didn't respond. "I want them to be my lawyers," Frank repeated; raising his voice just a notch and coughing as the gravel from his bruised larynx caught in his throat.

The Detective leaned forward and rubbed the bridge of his nose, remained silent, and left the room.

She came back, Karen, with the lawyer who had the hair, Nelson. Nelson said some things about his case. Frank wished he could pay more attention but, his sniper senses were focused on Karen. The shame was still evident on her face. The fact that she'd been his house. Violated his privacy. Violated the last place that was him; or used to be him. Frank doesn't really think before he speaks but, he knows that he has to get her alone and so he says what he has to get rid of Nelson. He knows, deep down, Nelson will have to be gone before Karen will admit going through his things. He doesn't know for sure yet but, he can tell she's the kind of woman who would have gone through every room, flipped pages in Maria's photo albums, touched his children's toys, and noted every stray jacket or children's sock forgotten on the floor and, the honest truth, is he can't remember anymore. It's killing him. Frank Castle is bruised and beaten with broken ribs and large bore hole through his left foot; he's killed and killed and killed and the monster inside him still will not remain quiet. Yet, the thing that's killing him is not knowing if those breakfast dishes made it back in the sink that morning. She was washing dishes but, did Maria clear his plate? Did she take the children's juice glasses off the table?

Nelson leaves and Karen nervously picks up and replaces a legal pad several times. Frank can tell she's not scared of him. It's something else; shame. She reads to him and he lets her know the DA's police report is utter horseshit. He may not remember everything but, the sickening, off-kilter tempo, of the Carousel music while he held the meat that used to be his little girl is something he'll never forget.

Karen thought as much, that the report was fake. He doesn't tell her about his faceless baby girl. That would be too much.

Frank asks her questions and somehow Karen knows the answers. She knows about the jeep he bought Frank Jr. She knows about the plastic dinosaurs. She even knows about the damn dishes. The monster inside seems to be momentarily sated at this news. He's grateful for the respite; even if it is short lived.

Frank answers Karen's questions then; legal this and that. He watches the way she darts her tongue across her lower lip during the natural break between questions. She crosses and uncrosses her legs and pulls at her skirt. When he's answered all she's asked she gives him a sincere, yet tight-lipped, smile. "I think I have all I need," She states matter of factly as she stands. "I'll go talk to Foggy, er, Mr. Nelson, and see what he wants to do next." She turns then, away from him, and Frank would have to be dead to not take notice of her perfect heart shaped ass. He feels guilty, instantly.

"Thank you Ma'am," Frank says.

It startles her, as Karen didn't see that one coming, and the honesty of the statement paints an icy pain somewhere in the vicinity of her soul. "For what," she asks.

"Helping me remember," he says.

The icy feeling in her soul grows somehow sharper and she's at a loss for what to say but, Karen finds herself nodding and the words "You're welcome," come clumsily tumbling from her lips. As if she's trying to make up for her cumbersome inept words she moves forward with the photo of his family. She puts it between his upturned fingers and lets her palm rest on the pulsepoint of his prone wrist.

They stay like that for what seems like an eternity. Frank slows his heart rate savoring the touch; not in a sexual way but, in the basic way a human craves touch. To remind them of their own humanity.

Karen pulls her hand away slowly. She isn't ashamed she touched him; Frank can tell. "I'll go over these notes with Mr. Nelson now," she says as she gathers her files.

Frank nods in response as he fingers the photograph in his hand. He looks up when he hears the door open and they lock eyes momentarily as she's walking out the door. He tries to memorize her then. The soft cream of her skin, the flaxen sheen of her hair, and the way her lips pucker as her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip again.

She'll look different later. After she sees him explode at the venomous bitch of a DA. She'll look scared then. But, even as he vents his intent to watch the DA burn along with him he tries to remember her from before. She had kindness in her eyes, understanding, and recognition that there was still some spark of humanity in him; even if he didn't see it himself.

After they leave the night nurses come. They check his vitals under the watchful eye of the posted police guard and push more pillows under his bandaged foot under the sheet. The nurse mentions something about a scheduled bath and the guard asks flatly if that's medically necessary. The nurse shrugs and says she'll run it by the doctor. When they leave the nurse asks if he'd like the light off. He gives her an almost imperceptible nod and she flips the switch. The police uniform gives Frank a look and says 'be good," like it would make a difference, before he, too, leaves Frank to the beeping monitors and the relative darkness.

Frank is grateful for the darkness; the relative silence. He closes his eyes, slows his breathing, and his pulse. Taking accounting of his body one muscle group at a time he forces his limbs to relax and grow heavy concentrating only on allowing the pain to flow freely and let him know what was in order and what was not.

Eventually the pain ebbs, like it always does, and his heart reaches an impressively slow pace. Frank allows himself sleep then, setting his internal clock for only a few hours. He knows he'll wake when those hours are up to retake his internal assessment.

This is not the first time he's completed this routine.

This is wrong.

Maria is above him.

He's dreaming; he has to be.

But;

He can feel her. Goddamnit; she is tight and slick around him and he would swear he can smell her.

He can't move and he flails his head from side to side only to find his wrists bound.

This is wrong.

This was never their kink. He loved to touch his woman with fingers and tongue and teeth. It was wrong for him to be tied in his dream.

Frank tries desperately to lurch forward and take one of her pert upturned nipples in his teeth. He wants it so bad he can already taste her skin but, he can't get to her. Something is holding him in place.

Something turns in Frank's stomach and he realizes that this isn't just some dream. Maria's wearing blue silk around her waist. It's his favorite nighty on her. The one with the strap he ripped when he pulled it off her shoulders the last night he made love to her before he left for The Shit. This is the dream. The one he had in the coma. The one that ends with the mawing hole in her chest, blood on her lips, and lifeless eyes when she collapses against him.

Frank closes his eyes, within his own dream, only to hear his dreaming self chanting in rhythm to her canting hips. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up," he orders his mind. This isn't real. "Wake up, Goddammit."

"Frank," he hears Maria's voice whisper in his dream. "Frank, look at me."

Frank bangs his head against the pillow in his dream; eyes scrunched tightly shut. She feels so Goddamn good; so wet, 'only wet for you,' she used to tell him. He can feel her hands splayed on his chest; nails slightly raking his nipples.

"Frank," He hears her voice again, "Baby look at me."

He doesn't want to but, his body won't let him wake. He has to finish the dream. Fighting his own will Frank opens his eyes in his dream and gasps despite himself.

It's Karen.

"Look at me," she says.

And, he does, God help him, he does.

Frank Castle knows he's dreaming and, just for a second, he hopes he's thrown an embolism and this is his life now. To be stuck in this moment with her. Forever.

She cants her hips to the left a little and lifts off him just enough that she can get to her clit. He watches with greedy fascination as she rubs it and lets out a breathy moan. Frank pulls forward to get to her and finds that he can, now, move his hands. He grabs her hips and forcefully rights her back on his cock; pushing up into her at the same time. Her eyes squeeze tightly and her brow furrows as he feels her walls begin to flutter around him.

He slaps her hand away and forces his blunt fingers between them plucking at her clit until she comes, screaming, apart around him. Her body slumps forward against his chest and Frank grins; proud of himself. He's still hard and inside her; ready for round two. He laughs lightly as her rubs her back. "Don't pass out on me now doll. I'm far from done with you," he hears his voice say but, even as the words escape, he knows its wrong.

This is wrong.

When he lifts his hand from her back it's wet and sticky. The red is redder than it should be. Blood isn't really that color. He knows that but, it doesn't make it any less red in his dream. Frank's breath catches. "Karen," he whispers, not willing yet to believe this is where it will culminate. He shifts and her head lolls to the side; dark hair framing Maria's lifeless face.

The cold weight of her body is somehow suffocating and Frank wakes with a start.

Beeping machines and ambient light.

The room is cool. The temperature is made uncomfortable by the thin layer of sweat that lays beneath his hospital gown.

There is a sob in the room, a disembodied racking gasp, and Frank realizes, with a start, that it's him. He allows himself one more before he shuts it down, closes his eyes, slows his breathing, and his pulse.

Slowly, methodically he takes a secondary accounting of his body one muscle group at a time. He forces his limbs to relax and grow heavy concentrating only on allowing the pain to flow freely and let him know what was in order and what was not.

Eventually the pain ebbs, like it always does, and his heart reaches an impressively slow pace but, he knows there will be no more sleep tonight.

This is not the first time he's completed this routine.


	2. The Suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little exploration of Karen helping Frank when his hands are tied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always: I do not own Marvel, Daredevil, The Punisher, or sweet Karen Page. If I did I would be vacationing in The Maldives instead of writing fan fiction over my lunch break! This is a long one but, I had fun writing it so I hope you enjoy reading it. ;)

She'd come to visit him twice, so far, in prison.

Karen laid the suit bag on the conveyor belt along with her messenger bag stuffed with files. She'd left her purse at home and elected to tuck her wallet in the messenger bag instead. One less thing to carry.

"Ma'am," Karen looked up at the uniformed guard behind the belt scanner. "You've got to take the shoebox out of the suit bag; it's regulation."

"Of course," Karen replied as she dug into the bag; removing the loafers.

The first time Karen had visited Frank inside it had been, strained. He'd still called her 'Ma'am' then, instead of Karen, but, she'd tried to take it for what it was; an ingrained sign of respect.

She'd stayed at the other side of the room, initially, but, she couldn't tell herself why, exactly, now. He'd asked her for information but, she'd stood her ground and gotten her information first; the name of a Colonel, a character witness.

'Ray Schoonover,' Frank had mumbled; half to himself and half to her. She'd misspelled his name horribly and spent thirty minutes on hold with VA trying to get it straightened out later.

To her dismay he'd shot down PTSD. With just a lick of surliness in his voice he'd called it 'an insult' to the others who were really going through that. It had frustrated her. Why couldn't he see that the trauma didn't have to come from halfway around the world? Didn't he realize the trauma he'd endured was just as valid; a wash of familiar blood in his own backyard.

After she'd gotten the name of that Colonel Karen had sat. She was comfortable with him in a way that took most people years to be comfortable with others. She'd seen through the cracks in his veneer of monstrous-ness down to the man he was underneath the first time she'd met him.

She'd seen it in the way he fingered the slick semi-gloss family photo at the hospital. She'd seen it in the way he'd dismissed the moving pieces of his family's murder investigations saying he'd 'done it all before,' and the almost imperceptible ghost of a smile that twitched the corners of his mouth when she'd answered 'you haven't done it with me.' She'd heard it in the heartbreaking way he'd asked 'are you sure' when she'd asserted that he wasn't the 'monster people believe you to be.'

"This way," the uniformed officer said as he motioned through the metal detector. Karen stepped forward and onto the slightly squishy pad with two outlined shoe prints to indicate where she should place her feet. There was a whirring and then a tick as the light on the detector switched from red to green. "Come through," the uniform said.

It was on her second visit to the prison she'd convinced him to testify on his own behalf. She'd poured her heart into that tirade as he seemed so resolved then; so ready to accept his fate. And then, somewhere between slamming her hands on the table for the third time and bowing her head in frustration, she'd crossed the acceptable line between her side of the table and his. There had been a sharp tap on the glass in the door and Karen had turned, in her chair, to see a uniformed officer loudly proclaim, through the privacy glass, 'keep six inches apart. No touching.' Karen recalled how her breath stopped in her chest, caught on some imperceptible rasp in her lungs, when she felt the outline of Frank Castle's fingertips lurch forward and touch the side of her hand that was still on the table. There was no way the guard could have seen it. Her hand had been behind her back, between them both, planted firmly on the table to stabilize her when she turned in her chair. When she'd started to turn back around she'd felt Frank's touch slip away and, by the time she'd been looking forward again, his hand had been gone. The shadow of the pressure had lingered so lightly she hadn't been sure if she'd imagined it or not.

She had felt shaky then; her breath coming back in a little gasp. She'd looked up and met his soft brown eyes.

"I'll do it," he'd said simply. No more argument; just acquiescence, payment for his stolen touch.

She wasn't shaky because she was afraid of him. She hadn't been afraid of him then and she wasn't afraid of him now.

"Arms up," the uniform who had ushered her through the metal detector said brusquely. Karen complied and, as she let her mind wander, the uniform commenced to wand her body with practiced and efficient movements; scanning her for any minute evidence of metal hiding on her person that the larger detector might have missed.

Frank had startled her a couple of times; when she'd run with Grotto through a hailstorm of buckshot, when he'd yelled at the DA but, somehow she'd known he wouldn't hurt her. Not her. It would have been against 'his code.' It was a code he told her about in the hospital room but, it was also a code she'd pieced together long before; from crime scene photos and police reports. She couldn't decide now if she was being rational or idiotically trusting or if it really mattered which.

The battered and bloodied monster that shook Hell's Kitchen wasn't the real Frank Castle. The man she was trying to help, against impossible odds, was a Soldier, a Husband, and a Father. He was a man; who needed help remembering how to be a man. He needed help remembering the truth; finding the truth. And, Karen Page was honestly sure she could help him; without any more death. That was all the mattered.

Karen squared her shoulders as the female uniform approached her. The first time they'd done this routine it seemed so invasive, too personal, but, now, as the officers' latex clad hands traced the edges of her hair Karen reminded herself that it would be nothing compared to what Frank had been through. The officers' hands ventured downward, dragging lightly along her frame, pockets were turned inside out, cuffs turned up and then the hands went back up to her face. Karen opened her mouth automatically and grimaced at the taste of latex as slender fingers ran around the edges of her mouth between her teeth and cheek, then under her tongue. Karen gagged a little but, held in the telltale wretch in before it reached a vocal level. The officer stepped back and removed her gloves; "She's clean."

Karen took her messenger bag and the proffered suit bag from uniform behind the x-ray machine and gave her him her best professional smile. "I need to see my client now," she said in clipped, short, professional tones. Frank wasn't really her client, not really, not in the eyes of the law. But, Frank was her boss's client and saying 'I need to see my boss's client' didn't really have the same authoritative tone.

Foggy had always told her 'Fake it till you make it.'

"He's in holding," the older, male, uniform responded. "This way; I'll escort you."

Frank Castle itched; all over.

Above all other, inconveniences, that precipitated injuries this was by far his most frustrating.

These weren't the kind of itches you could scratch away; these were bone knitting, muscle mending itches down deep and Frank didn't dare dig his clipped nails down into his wounds. He needed his body to heal too badly to chance it; less it fail him at an unforeseen moment in the future. And, as Frank didn't intend on spending the rest of his life in a cell in Upstate New York, he needed his body to heal. Having it fail him was not an option he entertained.

But, the itch, the proverbial 'itch he couldn't scratch' set his nerves on edge. It was bad today; deep in his left foot, near his third metatarsal. In his solitude he sneered at the itch. Grimace set; he concentrated on ignoring it, getting past it, before Karen Page graced his cell with her presence.

That grimace on Frank's face was still there when Karen walked in 'solitary holding' with her escort.

Frank was getting used to having her around him. She didn't make his skin crawl like everyone else did after he'd woken up; after everything. It wasn't that he'd had to acclimate to her to make himself comfortable; it was that he'd had to acclimate to the fact that he was comfortable with her from the beginning. From the first time she'd been in his hospital room she'd brought with her the smells of sunshine and crisp wind and the more she was around the more he wished she could see him, just once, as the man he used to be. He looked down at his own body as she entered, observing her, tracking her from his periphery, but, taking in his orange jumpsuit, the shackles, and the bruised and split knuckles of his hands at the same time.

Frank knew he had nothing left to offer someone like her. This was his life now. Even if he lost the jumpsuit he'd still be The Punisher from here on out. That was a life sentence he couldn't escape.

Karen gasped a little, despite herself, when she walked in. Frank was standing and that was, within itself, unusual, but, not unexpected as he did have to change into the suit she'd brought him for court but, it wasn't his standing that made her gasp. It was some primal instinct in her recognizing the primal force in him that was just bigger than her; just more. Karen knew he'd still be a watercolor canvas of aqua and chartreuse and she had no reason to fear him but, in spite of all these facts, there was something about walking into a room with Frank Castle that made her lose her breath every time. It was like he'd already used up all the oxygen in the room and the rest of humanity was just left with what he allowed them.

"Ah," Karen started, breaking the silence and regaining her composure. She didn't really have anything with which to follow up that syllable, as it floundered between them, so she elected for a simple, "Yes," as she moved to a concrete wall bench and set her messenger and suit bag flat. Then, raising her gaze to meet his, she gave him her best smile.

Frank watched as Karen's mind worked out her next move. It was fucking cute the way her internal monologue played across her face punctuated by a series of 'Ah's' and 'Well's'. Frank shifted a little in place, "Ma'am."

"Frank," Karen said.

The way she said his name made his gut do a funny thing and Frank shifted his weight again.

Karen turned back to the guard. "So," she said brusquely, "How do we get this off?" Karen motioned in Frank's general direction as she spoke drawing attention to Frank's obvious inability to trade his jailhouse orange for the dark suit she'd brought while his hands and feet were shackled.

The guard gave a little head shake; "'We' don't get anything off Ma'am," he replied.

Karen's mouth opened and closed a couple of times like a fish out of water.

The guard scratched his eyebrow with his thumbnail and tried his best not to make direct eye contact with Karen. "Prisoner dresses himself Ma'am," the guard continued. "You and I will make ourselves scarce into the hall and he'll stick his feet and hands through the shackle ports. When he's done; same routine in reverse. Waist chain stays on; no exceptions."

Karen felt her face flame as she snapped her mouth shut; thereby ending her impression of the catch of the day. The obvious, unspoken, implication of her prior statement being that she, somehow, believed that she would dress Frank. Karen's mind slipped into a flustered tailspin; it wasn't like that but, if she said anything like that now she'd come off like an embarrassed schoolgirl. It was somehow made worse by the fact that the uniform that had escorted her looked vaguely of her grandfather.

"Of course," Karen said. "Of course he can dress himself," Karen said, picking up her messenger bag and moving back toward the pocket door.

"Ma'am," it was Frank's voice this time.

Karen stopped short, still turned away from him; "Yes?"

"Thank you for the suit Ma'am."

Karen stayed turned away, not trusting that her color had returned to normal, and allowed herself the softest wisp of a secret smile. "Thank me when it fits," she said.

The process took time: Opening of the gate, closing of the gate, removal of cuffs, and, after that, the shackles. But, from the time his shackles were removed to the time he called for the guard to replace them couldn't have been more than four minutes. Frank wasn't the kind of man that languished, stealing extra minutes out of iron. He would have been practical about it.

Karen was having difficulty focusing as the guard called for opening of the gate again. If she was truthful about it she was having difficulty not thinking about Frank Castle in an entirely inappropriate way. The knowledge that he was one room over sliding on the suit pants she'd pressed over the boxers she'd picked out was making the initial fleeting of appreciation she'd had for his body, in the hospital room, harder and harder to ignore.

Her mind was wandering because of Matt; she reasoned. Last night, so late, finding a woman, no an exotic woman, in his bed had brought her emotions to a head. Jealous, she was jealous, and hurt; that was definitely up there too but, even then, her logical mind argued with her. Her relationship with Matt wasn't exclusive. They'd never 'defined it' because he didn't want to 'label things.' But, that wasn't all of it. If she was really honest with herself, if she was really listening to her body, she was fucking horny. She was stressed to the point of breaking and it had been over two years since she'd been with anybody and weeks before the Castle case started since she'd had a moment to herself. For herself.

Karen huffed out a little puff of air as she stood and tucked her hair behind her ears. Frank had called for the cuffs and now the gate was groaning open. Karen sucked in a breath when she saw the crisp outline of Frank Castle in his suit. 'You can thank me now,' she thought.

Karen's initial observation was that the suit, all things considered, wasn't a bad fit. For some reason Frank had left the shirt untucked and he was still wearing his prison issue jail shoes.

"Shit," Karen suddenly exclaimed.

Frank looked up; momentarily startled by her outburst.

"I left the shoes at the scanner," Karen turned and said to the uniform. "I completely forgot," She continued. "My hands were full and the other guard said I had to take them out of the suit bag because"

The uniform held up his hand; stopping Karen mid-sentence. "I'll get 'um," he drawled easily. Before he left the guard moved forward between Karen and Frank and cuffed Frank's shackle chain to an o-ring concreted in the floor. "Be right back son," the guard said pleasantly to Frank.

The guard left them then and Karen jumped a little when she heard the massive door slam shut and the aged locks slide into place.

"Why didn't you tuck in your shirt?" The question seemed ridiculous and Karen was ashamed she'd asked it almost as fast as the words came out. It was his shirt, after all; bunched up around the metal waist chain. It was pretty well concealed by the black suit jacket that draped past his waist and lid evenly on his narrow hips so, she supposed he could leave it untucked if he wanted. It just seemed so out of character for him, so un-military, so un-Frank.

"Why didn't you bring me a tie?" He grunted back as an answer.

"Choking and weapons hazard," Karen replied.

Frank gave a little expulsion of breath in disbelief as a smile quirked the right side of his mouth. "So you're sayin' I have to look like some Yuppie Millennial douchebag because someone sometime used a tie as a weapon?"

Karen shrugged and gave him half a smile.

Frank considered this for a moment; wetting his lips and chewing, lightly, on the bottom one. "Makes sense I guess." He finally conceded.

Karen felt like she should say something; to fill the empty space between them while the waited for his shoes. "Do you want to go over your testimony?" She asked as she moved to the concrete bench opening her messenger bag.

"My hands didn't fit," Frank replied.

Karen raised her eyebrows as she her hovering hands kneaded themselves, unconsciously, over her messenger bag. Realization dawned on her; "Didn't fit where? Are the pants too tight?"

Frank shifted uncomfortably and had a momentary flashback to a JC Penny when he was twelve years old. He was in the dressing room and his Mother was ask/yelling if the crotch of his pants were too tight.

Frank plucked at the waistband of the suit pants and Karen was able to see that, if anything, they hung loose and low of narrow hips. Frank then pulled out on the connecting iron waist chain of his cuffs and Karen watched as he showed her his inability the stick more than a solitary thick finger between the chain and his body.

"Oh," Karen said brightly. "Well, I can fix that." Karen didn't really think about how horny she was when she quickly stood from the concrete bench. She didn't really think about the 'six inches rule' that she'd been admonished for on her last visit to Frank's cell. Karen didn't even think about the fact that she probably had less than ninety seconds to complete her task before the uniformed guard returned. The only thought that passed through Karen Page's head in that moment was the same one she had said; 'I can fix that.' She knew her hands would be smaller and nimbler than his and she figured that she could, probably, work his shirt tails under that chain rather easily.

Frank wasn't ready for her to move that fast.

He'd become accustomed to her hesitant hand ringing and flighty little 'ums' and 'ohs' and it was cute. She was cute; at a distance. Frank wanted to keep it that way. His heart still bled, open and raw, in his chest, for his family; his wife. Frank couldn't reconcile it in his own mind; the utter horror he felt every morning on waking to discover his family's murder was not some horrible nightmare and the twist in his chest, hope, when he knew Karen was coming. They both made him feel things he'd rather not. Emotions were sticky things; like blood and he'd rather keep his where they belonged; Inside. So, now, when she moved across the floor Frank's first instinct was to move away from her hands.

Karen, focused on the task at hand, stopped mere inches from Frank; hands going to the iron around his waist.

Frank flinched away. Iron scraped iron. He couldn't help it. She was too close. This was too close. "You can't touch me," he rasped.

Karen jerked her hands back, as if she'd been burned, freezing with her fingers inches from his waist. Taking just the briefest moment to think about her actions she realized this might be difficult for him. She'd touched him before but that had been, accidental. Accidentally on purpose but, they had been slight brushes. "I'm not going to hurt you," she said softly; keeping her voice even.

Frank gave a derisive snort, "I don't think that's what they're worried about."

Karen exhaled slowly as she inched her hands higher and let them lightly rest on Frank Castle's biceps. She felt corded muscle twitch under the cotton blended shirt and jacket but, he didn't pull away this time. "You're not going to hurt me either," she said softly.

"You sure about that?"

Karen felt upending frustration as her heart split for the hundredth time for Frank Castle. She was close enough to feel his breath, "Yes," she said firmly. If Karen hadn't been watching his face she would have missed the barely noticeable nod. She let go of a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and, taking the nod as permission, she let her hands glide along the outline of Frank Castle and snaked them under his suit jacket.

Frank held his body as still as possible as he felt her nimble fingers find the edge of his shirt. She was working the shirt under the chain now, the cloth folding under chain links inch by inch.

He wasn't flinching or twitching anymore and Karen couldn't help but marvel at the feel of Frank's body under her fingers.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips as she took another step towards him, closing the short gap, so she could reach the small of his back and finish working the fabric under iron.

Frank closed his eyes at the feel of her body pressed against chest. Every thought focusing on keeping his granite form immobile under her hands. His traitorous dick twitched and a muscle clicked in his jaw as he ground his teeth.

"I'm going to tuck it in your pants now." The words came out breathier than Karen intended and she closed her eyes briefly to steady her hands before she continued.

She took a step back and heard Frank groan.

Frank groaned at the loss of contact when her body pulled away from his.

"Did I hurt you?"

Frank opened his eyes and looked down into gaping endless pools of blue. He shook his head; not trusting himself to speak.

"Good," Karen said softly as she took the hem of his shirt and pushed it under the waistband of the loosely fitting slacks. Her fingertips lingered on warm skin pulled taught over steel corded muscle.

Frank hissed at the touch and Karen held his gaze. This had gone from helpful to something else entirely in less than thirty seconds.

"Don't play with me Doll." The gravel in his voice held a hint of darkness.

Karen froze, suddenly painful self aware of their current situation. She swallowed, audibly. "I, ah, Frank." The smell of the prison came back all at once, industrial disinfectant, metal, and lead paint. She stepped back; putting a little more distance between them and, as she did, he reached forward covering her hand at his waistband with his larger cuffed ones.

"I can get it from here," he said.

Karen didn't move to take her hand back. She just let him hold it. It felt good. It felt right.

Her breathing had almost returned to normal when she heard footsteps.

Frank let go of her hand.

"Open on five," someone behind her bellowed.

Karen took another small step back.

"Got the shoes," the guard behind said as he entered the cell. The uniform stopped short taking in the pair. "Ma'am?"

Karen didn't reply and Frank noted an edging of panic around her eyes.

"Answer him," Frank mouthed.

"Ma'am, are you alright?" The uniform's voice was louder now, he'd approached her and she hadn't even tracked his movement in the room.

Karen kept her eyes trained on Frank the anxiety of the moment overwhelming her body.

"Answer him," Frank's voice came out as a growl so low she was certain only she'd heard.

"Ma'am," the uniform's hand was on her shoulder now.

"I'm fine," Karen snapped as she turned on her heel; knocking the uniform's hand away.

Suddenly in full control of her extremities shame flooded her senses and Karen made a beeline for the door; snatching her messenger bag on her way past the concrete bench. 'He is my client. What the fuck was I thinking?' Angry rebukes raced through her mind. 'Jesus, Karen he trusted you and now what? Jesus, Karen; his wife. In his mind his wife died like a month ago. What the fuck are you doing?'

Karen got to the sliding bars and made two quick steps back and forth before slapping one of the rods open handed. "How do I get out of here?" The edge in her voice was so sharp it made Frank flinch halfway across the room.

When Karen turned back her eyes were wild and the uniform was directly in front of her. His eyes were kind, like her own Grandfather's had been. "You sure you're okay Ma'am?"

Karen forced herself to stop. She looked over the uniform's shoulder to Frank. He was standing in middle of the room, shiny metal chains connecting cuffs to shackles to floor and his shirt was mostly tucked in now. He was busy pushing white cloth past the black band. He paused, sensing her gaze, looked up, and met her eyes. Karen took that moment to memorize his face, not his bruises, but, the man under. Deep soulful eyes, full lips, strong jaw, corded muscle neck that disappeared into full thick shoulders and, hands that were twice as big as hers something about looking at him calmed her.

"I'm fine," Karen said; softer now. "I need to get to court. Will you make sure my client arrives by nine?"

The uniform sighed. "Open it up on 5," the uniform yelled. "Lady needs to get to court."

Karen stole one last look at Frank before she left. It was the last time she'd ever visit him in prison but, she didn't know that yet.


	3. The Carousel Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank saves Karen from a hail of gunfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own, nor do I profit in any way, from the MARVEL corp or the Daredevil franchise in any way. Sure wish I did though...
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains triggers and PTSD situations from the POV of Frank Castle.

Karen can hear her heartbeat in her ears. She's been followed all the way back to her fourth story walk-up by a patrol car, courtesy of Ellison, and now that she's in front of her building somehow she's more keyed up than when she was standing outside of of Tepper's crappy motel room watching the NYPD swarm in and out like cold weather flies.

"It wasn't Frank," she whispers as she approaches the outer door to her building. As soon as it comes out; it feels wrong. She doesn't know who she's trying to convince anymore Ellison, Matt, Foggy, or herself. But, Foggy is in the hospital, Matt is wherever the fuck Matt goes these days, Tepper will be patient on his own slab later tonight, and Ellison is still busy answering questions with the NYPD detectives at Tepper's dive motel thirty-two blocks away. That leaves her. Shit. Karen stabs the key in the outer lock. That means she is doubting Frank.

"Ma'am?" The younger, sandy blonde, uniformed cop flashes her a smile and raises his eyebrows. "Did you say something Ma'am?"

"Nothing," Karen bites back. Her tone is harsher than it should be for such an innocuous question. There is a snap to the air tonight. It's a tell tale cold that comes only when fall is well and truly over and winter is settling in for its season. A stray thought crosses Karen's mind to look for her scarf while she's upstairs. The door sticks and she has to throw her shoulder into it before it pops open with whine. When she turns back to make sure the officers are still behind her she realizes that the blond one looks a little hurt so she gives him a halfhearted smile. "Just want to get out of the cold," she says offhand.

Both men return her smile like this is an acceptable excuse for her to be snappy with them; like they've completely forgotten the dead body thirty-two blocks away.

As they crowd into building's tiny entrance Karen stops to check her mailbox; out of habit more than anything. She opens it quickly and pulls out the contents. There's a water bill, a gas bill, a Capital One Credit Card Application, and a flyer from the building's super recruiting 'floor captains' for their neighborhood watch. Karen laughs at the irony. It's a hollow throaty laugh, not her usual laugh, and when it comes out she has to close her eyes and put a palm flat on the wall to steady herself. The laugh builds on itself, pulling the futility of her own will into the stale foyer, and continues with a life of its own for another ten seconds before it dies out. Karen opens her eyes and she immediately feels stupid for laughing like that, in front of people.

When Karen looks back over her shoulder the black haired cop shrugs, "We all deal in our own way Ma'am."

Karen nods at this statement; taking it in. "I'm on the fourth floor," she says.

The sandy blonde cop positions himself in front of Karen and the darker haired one stays behind her. As the trio moves up the stairs Karen has the thought that she should really learn their names but, what was the point?

Her Mother would like it if she dated a cop.

They clear her apartment with guns drawn and tiny flashlights illuminating their way. The blonde one even goes in her closet; like Frank would be in her closet. Karen stands just outside, impatient, wishing she'd done last night's dinner dishes, as they open doors and look in cabinets. It doesn't take long. A fourth floor studio walk-up in her neighborhood in smaller than than her office.

Karen doesn't wait for them to give the okay. Once she has eyeballed their progress from the safety of her entryway she comes in on her own and starts grabbing legal pads and shuffling files.

"You live here alone?" It's the blonde cop again and Karen is done playing nice. Her nerves are too frayed for small talk.

In deference to her Mother's imagined wishes she bites out "Are you gonna ask me out or do you wanna wait in the hall?"

He doesn't look hurt when she casts him a sideways glance this time. He just looks annoyed with her attitude. Fuck him. Karen, suddenly, has a distinct memory of leafing through Frank's 'associates' file and setting in on her nightstand. She crosses the room to flip through a stack of identical greenish brown folders while the cops vacate her apartment; closing the door behind them.

Frank had heard the scanners pick up the shooting downtown this morning. He'd been halfway through a cup of deep black coffee when the radio had crackled to life. 'Units 45, 48,51,56,93,94, and any Supervisor to copy; proceed to back up Officers at City Courthouse. Shots fired. I repeat; Shots Fired.' There was a break in the traffic while a myriad of voices responded with '10-4s', their unit numbers and 'Enroutes'. Dispatch crackled through again. 'All units, I repeat, all units be advised; multiple gunshot victims. Requesting transport medic 5, 6, and 9 to respond. DA Reyes among the injured. Other injured include legal representation for Frank Castle. Expect Media presence. Can I get a Supervisor 10-4?'

Frank had leaned forward, then, to place his cup down on the desk and missed. The mug shattered at his feet.

By the time had Frank gotten downtown he couldn't get within six blocks of the courthouse. He had kept his head down with a plain, worn, blue baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and a dark backpack hanging off his shoulders. He'd seen his opportunity when an elderly woman had come shuffling out of her building and he'd held the door open for her. She'd smiled at him.

Once Frank had made it to the roof of the old lady's building he'd wrestled a pair of telescoping binoculars from his backpack and trained them on the seething mass of gawkers outside the courthouse. After he located the ambulances he easily picked out the lawyer called Nelson, on a gurney, and his mouth came open a little when he saw Karen standing there; talking with him. Frank had let the binoculars down from his face then, taken a shaky breath, and worked his jaw open and shut a few times. The muscles had hurt there; from where he'd been clenching them.

Frank followed her, the rest of the day. She went to The Bulletin offices, then across the street to a taiwanese place for lunch, she didn't eat much, then back to The Bulletin, then across town to a drug and rat infested motel, where she'd called the cops, and finally home, with a police escort in tow.

Frank stood in the foyer to her apartment building, ballcap low and backpack in place, trying to figure out, logically, why he was still following her. His brain mulled over the options. One; she was in trouble and would become the next victim of Fisk's frame job. Two; He was jealous of her interactions with the cops and Ellison even though, logically, he knew he had no right to be. Or Three; He needed to protect her, like he needed to breath, like he couldn't protect his family, because she was the only good thing he had left in this world. She was the one left in the world who believed he was, or even had been, a good man and, without her, the The Punisher would be all he had left.

Frank's eyes squinched shut momentarily as he used the palms of both hands to scrub his face.

Or Four; it was, just maybe, a combination of all three.

Frank took off the hat, folded it, and jammed it in the back pocket of his jeans. He, then, stowed the backpack under the stairwell and unzipped his jacket so it would be obvious he had nothing shoved in the waistband of his jeans. It was four floors up and Frank took the stairs two at a time.

Karen was reading when the door eased open to her apartment. No one was standing in the doorway and Karen called out hesitantly.

"Officers?"

No one responded.

Hands trembling slightly Karen crossed her apartment in a quick stride and snatched her .380 out of the her underwear drawer.

It felt cold and heavy in her hands; a familiar weight.

Frank heard her grab something as he was shoving the second unconscious uniform into a maintenance closet. When he heard the small sound of the dresser drawer and heavy metal against wood he guessed she had grabbed a gun. He smiled to himself as he leveraged his weight against the maintenance closet until he heard it click shut. "Good girl," he whispered into the hallway.

Hedging his bets Frank raised both his hands away from his waist so his jacket bowed a little as he rounded the corner into view of Karen's open doorway. When he saw the gun he wasn't surprised, and something akin to pride flitted through his system, but, when he saw the naked fear in her eyes his heart broke.

"Shush…." Frank whispered as he slowly edged forward.

"Hands on your head, Frank"

Frank kept coming towards her. He wanted to tell her not to worry, that he could never hurt her, but, the military training had taken over and, his eyes were tracking her gun. He noted the tremble in her grip and her finger's slight twitch on the trigger. She was spooking like a scared Kentucky thoroughbred and, he knew, in this state she wouldn't hear his words. "Shushhh…."

Trembling fingers found the .38's hammer and cocked it back. "I mean it, Frank."

"It wasn't me." Why did he say that? It sounded so hollow coming from him but, Frank, made the split second decision that the truth had always worked for them in the past so, why shouldn't he try it now.

She was yelling now; something about 'unloading this thing' and despite his best efforts to see this from her perspective Frank found himself getting annoyed. Frank stopped moving forward and repeated himself; "It wasn't me."

Frank wasn't surprised when she instructed him to put his hands on his head again and, only because he knows he could take her at this distance if he has to, he acquiesces and starts to move his hands to cup the back of his skull.

Frank stops. Freezes. His hands are most of the way to his head when he heard something that sounded like music. So quiet, far away, and, yet, so familiar. Frank turned his head to look out the window, as if the view from Karen's apartment could tell him what he just heard, and, in that briefest quarter beat of his heart, his brain caught up with his ears and he knew it was that fragment of a melody from his nightmares.

It's carosel music.

Frank lunged forward and knocked the gun from Karen's hands as the hailstorm of gunfire turns the studio apartment into a war zone. His mind started to panic as he bowed his body around her. He felt his hands frame her face in an attempt to feel if her mouth is still moving. The noise is deafening and Frank thinks he can feel her gasping for air under him and, as the gunfire comes to a sudden halt, he hears a muffled cry.

She's alive.

Frank feels strangely vindicated. "Do you believe me now?"

"I believe you. I believe you."

The panic in her voice makes him feel terrible for even asking the question. "We gotta get you outta here," he grunts; forcing her to her feet. "Stay low."

Karen raced toward the hallway, leaving her apartment door open, and Frank was sure to stay close behind her into the hallway running crouched over at the waist. When he rounded the doorway and Frank stopped short.

"Frank," Maria is standing there with a hole through her chest he could fit his fist in. "Frank," she says again; panic naked in her voice. "What do I do Frank?"

Frank grunted and shook his head. Maria's face melted grotesquely into the Karen's features. He grabbed her hand and half pulls, half drags, her down the stairs. Frank heard a snapping noise when they pass the second floor and turns, pausing for a second, to see Maria bent on the stairs holding the lifeless body of Frank Jr. "No," he hears himself yell out, lunging forward, toward the step, to grab his son only to put his hands around Karen's ankle. Frank's breath catches somewhere in his chest when he realizes that it's just her shoe. Her high heel has broken off and she's trying to slip the pump off. Frank bit the inside of his cheek, drawing blood, hoping the pain will keep him in reality.

'This is not the time to lose your shit,' his mind barked. 'Get it the fuck together, Frank!'

"Leave the shoes," he ground out. Wrapping his hands around her waist he lifts her out of the heels and carries her down the last three stairs to the main foyer and, setting her down, shoves her away from the front door towards the marked alley 'emergency exit.'

There is a white sticker across the push handle that reads 'Emergency Exit Only. Alarm will sound.' Karen slammed into the door with Frank pushed against her back and, as the door bangs against the brick in the alley, she can't help but notice the lack of any alarm. That's a fire hazard but, she can't concentrate on that now. Frank's grabbing at her hands again and pulling her.

"Run," Frank barked and, she does.

Karen's vision started to swim around block three and her chest is burning with the effort. Frank is basically dragging her along and, even as Karen tries to reclaim her hand, she realizes she has no hope of wrenching herself from his grasp. Frank singular in his focus as he drags her and, Karen notes, he isn't even looking back anymore. Near the end of block five Karen realizes a little too late that she's taking a wild step and her right foot comes down on something that crunches under her sole. A sudden pain lights up her instep and Karen gave an involuntary cry of pain. Frank froze in front of her so abruptly that her momentum slams her body into his back.

Frank had ahold of Maria's hand and was pulling her away from their children's bodies; trying to save her. This time they'd made it out of the park. This time he almost believed they were going to be okay. This time they would make it. This time would be different. This time he would save her. But, then, he heard it; a sharp, sudden, cry of pain came from behind him and he froze. Down deep, at his core, Frank knew his wife had just been shot.

Frank turned, slowly, to face his wife but, it wasn't his wife.

They hadn't made it out of the park.

Frank took stock of Karen's form before him. She was breathless, her chest was heaving as she leaned her left side heavily on Frank's right forearm. She was holding her right foot with her right hand, pain evident on her face, and Frank's whole body stiffened as he saw the crimson rivulets escaping between her fingers. Her shoes; he'd told her to leave her shoes.

Acting more out of ingrained military chivalry than actual thought Frank leaned forward and, easily, scooped Karen's form into his arms.

She wasn't Maria.

He could feel that now.

Maria's body had been shorter; fuller. With thick full hips and a slender waist Maria had fit against him much differently than Karen was now. Karen was a gangly thing, all legs and arms, but, remarkably, she was all soft curves against his chest. The joints that looked so sharp from Frank's normal distance melted into his grasp like the folding wings of a dove. Frank ducked in an alley between two brownstones and shoved the cleanest looking piece of forgotten cardboard he could find against a brick wall. His knees protested as he crouched and set her on the marginally clean brown square.

Karen felt her whole body begin to shake as Frank sat her down. She'd just got her breathing under control and now her teeth wouldn't stop chattering. Sweat broke out across her forehead and her chest felt hot. Karen tried to stop the shaking. Closing her eyes so she could focus Karen was startled to feel Frank's hands on her face, then in her hair, on her arms, her chest, a flat palm found it's way across her belly and then there were strong hands running down her thighs.

"F-frank," Karen chattered.

Frank's eyes snapped up to meet hers; searching for some sign of injury or pain.

"F-f-frank," Karen tried again. "I c-c-can't st-st-st-op shak-k-k."

Two firm hands came to either side of Karen's face and she tried her best to focus on the sound of Frank's voice.

"You're going to be fine Karen."

He said her name. She tried a smile only to find she couldn't get her lips to work right. What was he saying now?

"It's adrenaline; an overload. Your body built it up and let it loose when we got attacked. 'Fight or Flight.' You've just have too much in your system and, now that you've stopped, your body's trying to burn it out. You're going to be fine. Just breath."

Frank watched as her shaking breath turned to intermittent hiccups; her eyes trained on his the whole time.

'God she is so goddamn beautiful.' The thought startled him. Frank was unprepared for how it wound around his soul and twisted in his gut.

The kiss surprised them both.

Frank lurched forward, planting his right hand on the wall near her ear for support, and crushed his mouth down against hers. Their teeth bumped and someone's canine caught on someone's lip. Frank tasted blood and he didn't know if it was his or hers and he didn't care. The taste pulled at his desire; dragging it screaming into the alley with them. Teeth scraped on teeth again and someone moaned. Her hands were on his neck; thin fingers gripping hard enough to bruise; clipped fingernails biting into skin where hair was buzzed short. Frank moved his hands from her face to her neck and then her breasts. Karen arched into his touch and Frank's mouth moved to her neck. Teeth bit at flesh. Karen cried out as need slicked through her abdomen and pooled between her thighs and the predator in him growled at the noise; moving his body forward to cover hers.

Karen froze. Her foot lit up with pain for the second time in ten minutes.

Frank felt her body change beneath his. She loosed a high pitched whine and, this time, it was a painful sound. He came away from her sharply, all at once, breaking any connection their bodies had and rocked back, crouched, on the balls of his feel. With a frustrated growl, noted blood on his knee. He'd bumped her foot. 'How the fuck had he been so careless?'

Karen's shaking had subsided and she now felt hot and prickly all over. Save the pain in her foot, she thought, it was the best she'd felt in days. The absurdity of that thought almost made her laugh out loud.

Karen watched, wincing only slightly, as Frank carefully lifted her foot. He propped it up on his knee and grimaced, thoughtfully, at the sole.

"Is it bad?" Karen asked; shocked at how steady her voice was now.

"You'll live," he replied; giving her half a sliding smirk.

Karen started to say something else witty but had to bite her lip, to stifle a scream, as Frank's thick fingers plowed through the open wound.

"Got the glass," he said simply.

Karen nodded; tears threatened her gaze.

Frank stood, bringing Karen up to her feet with him. She came up gingerly, keeping most of her weight on her left foot.

Frank felt flushed. Karen kept her hand against his chest, to steady herself, as she tested her right sole and the skin burned, under his cotton t-shirt, where she touched him. He could still taste blood in his mouth. His dick was half hard and the animal inside screamed for him to press her against the filthy brick and take her from behind. 'Mark her. Make her ours; she's not safe without us,' it bellowed. 'She's not safe with us,' another, smaller, voice whispered. When Frank looked up Maria was standing behind Karen's left shoulder. The hole in her chest a bottomless, black, mawing, pit.

Karen let out a breath she'd been holding as she finally put a 'walkable' amount of weight on her right foot. The pain was still there but, the sharp 'cutting' feeling was gone. She nodded as she looked up to Frank. "It's better," she said, dropping her hand from his chest.

Frank hands twitched by his sides. He needed to touch her; just one more time.

Hesitantly Frank brought his hands hands to her head, smoothing through her hair, and Karen thought, just for a second, that he might kiss her again but, instead, she felt his lips on the top of her head. His voice came out raw, like cheap whiskey roadway gravel, and it made her head ache to hear the agony in his inflection. "You have to go back," he whispered into the part of her hair.

Karen only nodded. She felt his hands drop away from her and he stepped back.

"Do you think you can walk?" He rasped as he backed up again.

Karen nodded a second time.

"I'll be watching you." There was a long pause and Frank chose his next words carefully; "You're safe." He backed away from her slowly and, was almost at the end of the alley, before Karen witnessed his form disappear; into the dark.

Karen turned the other way then, back toward her apartment and the sirens, into the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you have enjoyed.
> 
> More to come.
> 
> Cheers and Happy Writing,
> 
> Rev


End file.
